


the leaves will bury every year

by dreamingbackwards



Category: Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-07
Updated: 2012-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-30 19:03:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamingbackwards/pseuds/dreamingbackwards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the planning and the consequences of a murder vary wildly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the leaves will bury every year

**Author's Note:**

> I originally posted this on Tumblr. This is the final product after much editing. Title courtesy of Tom Waits and fuckyeahdiomedes.

There are moments in the middle of the night, when Hendricks is asleep, where John thinks about killing him.

He doesn’t want to. The thought makes something in his chest twist painfully, but what else can he do? It can’t go on this way. Someone will find out about them and then where will they be? Half of all power is in the public’s perception. John will lose everything, should this come to light. There are thousands of people who will lose the protection they take for granted every day. Slowly but surely, this one unwise decision will cast doubt on every other he has made. Any show of of emotion, of weakness, of humanity is a chink in the armor John needs to remain impenetrable. He must remain the invulnerable man for everyone else as much as himself.

At this point in his internal argument, John always looks over at Hendricks, fast asleep, snoring into the pillow. His right-hand man. His best friend. As of late, his…. lover? A bit melodramatic, but accurate enough. At this point, the only one who knows John as well as Gentleman Johnny, and that right there is reason enough to dispose of him. Any weakness is too much, John thinks as he runs a hand through Hendrick’s hair.

But then there are the questions a disappearance would raise. Who got close enough to Johnny Marcone to get a hit on Hendricks? It’s unfortunate that Nathan is in the background of every photo op, every gala. His absence would be noticed, and that would begin the questions, the erosion of John’s credibility, should he fail to find a plausible explanation. John can’t afford that.

Of course, there are ways around it. A public accident- Hendricks drives insanely enough that it wouldn’t be too difficult to arrange- an assassination attempt gone wrong, and one time John actually calls the law officers of the fair city. There are a hundred thousand ways it could be done, but a few ideas are immediately tossed out. John doesn’t want to do it himself. He knows he couldn’t (well, he could, but he has enough haunting him already) bear to lose Nathan’s trust, even in the last instant before he dies. And that is proof of just how much John truly needs to get rid of him.

Still, there are many more preparations that would need to be made before John makes a stone decision on method. He’d need a new bodyguard, first off, and those with qualifications such as Hendricks’ are hard to come by. And how is John supposed to schedule interviews without Hendricks finding out? After all, it is his job to know John’s business. And Gard, John is sure, would be put out. Some days it seemed as though her greatest pleasure was flustering Hendricks.

It’s decided, then, John always thinks at this point. The ultimate decision can wait, but for now it’s simply far too inconvenient. At least, that’s what he’ll tell himself.

***

The decision is made in the warehouse.

John stands, pressing a gun against the temple of the man kneeling on the floor. Hendricks leans against the wall to their left.

“One last chance, Donahue. Tell me.” John’s voice is cold, bored.

Donahue gives a violent twitch and John smacks the back of his head with the gun. “Oh, fuck you, Marcone! You’re fuckin’ over here, anyway. Over.” His voice drops low. “Fag.”

John stills completely. “Pardon me?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. If I can find out about you fucking the quarterback over there, someone else can. You’re done, Ma-”

The crack of the shot echoes for a moment. Sighing, Hendricks walks over to the body, feels for a pulse. “We could’ve gotten more out of him,” he says as he stands back up. “You’ve been called worse.”

John avoids his gaze and fixes his own cuffs. “I doubt he had more to give.”

Hendricks shakes his head.

***  

They get to the apartment late that night, nearly eleven. John hears Hendricks toss his keys on the table and let out that “I’m-relaxing” sigh he always does when they get home.

Home. Home, and John will never sleep here again.

He sits on the couch and rubs his eyes. He’s not as young as he used to be. A night of interrogating can take a lot out of him, but John knows he won’t be able to sleep. He never can when there’s work to be done. He’s beginning to think there will be very little sleep in his future- the insomnia has gotten worse in the past few years, and after tonight…. well, John isn’t sure he’ll want to. Guilt has a way of worming into wherever his subconscious weaves his dreams.

Nathan sits down next to him and rubs a hand up and down his back. Shutting his eyes, John leans into it, trying to remember this feeling. The easy giving of comfort, the push and pull they’ve always had with each other. He can feel Nathan’s sympathy, his sadness, his amusement- he’s always liked to tease John about being an old man, even before the teasing had any merit. He knows all this and he wonders how much Nathan knows about what he feels right now.

John leans against Nathan’s chest and Nathan kisses along his ear, his cheek, his jaw before John twists around to get into a better position. He shuts his eyes for a moment, trying to commit the sensation to memory. And when Hendricks finally reaches his lips, it’s been far too long already and John does his best to put everything he can’t say into the kiss.

***

He rolls over and looks at the clock. 3:48. Hendricks is face-up next to him, snoring away, and John gives him a weak smile that disappears when he pulls the gun out of the bedside drawer. He would usually use a knife- his instinct is to go with a weapon that can’t jam when he needs to get in close- but it would be far too personal. The circumstances are less than opportune, but one does what one must. John just wants to get this over with.

He’s screwing the silencer on when he hears Nathan’s breath stutter, and he twitches and looks over. Just turning in his sleep, luckily. John can breathe easy as he leans over Nathan’s bare chest.

He looks him over. The curtains are sheer enough that the cold winter moonlight leaves the room visible. Nathan’s mouth is slightly open, his head lolling towards John’s side of the bed. The moonlight washes him out: John could easily mistake his hair for blonde. He couldn’t see the blush that would be on Nathan’s face if he woke up to find John like this, staring and wanting. John can picture the last time it happened, when Nathan woke up to find him - but that would not be happening tonight.

John takes a deep breath and presses the gun, softly, to Nathan’s chest. It’s a good silencer. John hears nothing more than a deep _whumpwhump_ and Nathan jerks and-

-Oh God, what has he done? He could’ve found another solution, they could’ve gotten out of this together, everything else be damned. Oh, God. He’s not sure if he’s thinking it or saying it but for once John means it the way it was intended: all-powerful God, please undo my mistake, I’ll do anything, anything at all, just say the word and I’ll do it. But God says nothing to John and those two holes stay just left of center on Nathan’s broad, freckled chest and Nathan is looking at him with such innocent confusion.

“Why?” he chokes out, a trickle of blood coming from the corner of his mouth.

John doesn’t know what to say. A tear falls. He waits for a moment, and then-

“Because I love you.”

Nathan smiles and how terrible is life in general and John in particular that this is the only time he’s told him that? He hopes that Nathan can forgi- No. No, he doesn’t. This time the greater good can go fuck itself, there is nothing to justify this. There is no reason, there were other solutions, and John is someone who usually never settles for the easy way out. This is unforgivable on every level he can imagine.

He holds Nathan’s hand as he dies.

***

Time passes.

There are whispers. John hears them, all of them, and ignores every last one. Those of the women who have met him personally are tinged with concern. Those of the men are laced with fear, contempt on the few occasions someone will venture out the popular theory. For once, the popular theory coincides with the truth. The old Marcone would muse upon that. The new one does not muse at all.

***

Inevitably, Harry Dresden comes to John’s office. He feels he should have expected this: after all, it is only Marcone’s personal sphere that has spun off its axis. The rest of the world is functioning normally, which means that someone has to save it from its greedy, self-destructive nature.

"Hey, criminal scumbag. Long time, no see," Harry greets him, all self-satisfied grin and suspicion. "How's business been treating you?"

John barely glances at him over the report he's making notes on. "Good evening, Mr. Dresden. May I ask what brings you to my office?"

"Oh, just wanted to see your face, Johnny. That and find out why you’re grounded." Dresden leans against the wall. His oversize coat and week of scruff make him look like an unusually clean hobo.

John flicks his gaze up- and up, and up- at Harry. "Grounded? If I tell you I have no idea, will you leave without causing any property damage?" John asks. His voice is devoid of any real interest. It usually is, these days. A six-foot-infinity wizard looking to interrogate him is no more engaging than a quarterly budget review.

Dresden flashes a grin. "Telling you would take all the fun out of it. Speaking of your property, where's the Clifford to your Emily Elizabeth?” Harry asks, looking around the office. “Seems like a waste of a money to have a bodyguard who isn't guarding your body."

John suppresses the instinctual flinch and sets the report carefully down on the desk, steepling his fingers. "I have no idea why you’re here, Mr. Dresden," John says, and looks at him with polite interest.

"Come on, Marcone. Everyone knows you’re hiding, they just can’t figure out why. Some kind of security thing?" He grins. “Oh, I’ll bet that’s it. Cujo’s got you under lock and key, and he’s busy watching camera feeds through the building or something, am I right?”

John watches him. He takes sip of coffee, looking away, and raises his eyes to Dresden's again. "He’s on vacation. If you're finished wasting valuable time, I'd like you to leave. I have work to do."

Dresden twitches. "Don't call me Harry," he says, obviously a reflex by now, and narrows his eyes at John. "Something's off with you, Marcone."

"Unless you've been hired to investigate me, my affairs are none of your concern."

"Unless it seems like you're slipping, in which case a lot of people are coming down with you and it becomes my business." Dresden puts on the usual displeased face he does when he has to acknowledge John has done good for some people.

John shuffles a few papers about on his desk. "Luckily for all involved, I remain firmly in position. Now, Mr. Dresden, if you would avail yourself the use of my door..."

Harry walks over to the seat in front of John's desk and sits, flattening his hands on the shining wood. "There's something up, Marcone, and I want to know what it is. I want to know why you're ignoring the press and everyone else. People are starting to notice that you're not doing your high-society teas or whatever the hell it is you do, and they're getting antsy. You can't tell me you haven't noticed it."

Keeping his gaze level and steady, John remains silent. On occasion he forgets that Dresden, violent and classless though he is, remains a perceptive investigator.

"There's got to be a reason you're keeping out of the public eye," Harry continues. "You're not cursed or under investigation, so it must be political. Something's keeping you out of action," Dresden muses. It’s beginning to seem like John is becoming a sounding board for his theories. "And if Cujo there is on vacation... Hm. Is someone trying to inherit the Outfit, they try to whack you and get him instead? Or did you just decide Hendricks knew too much, and he had to sleep with the fishes?" He laughs on the last question, and John sees red.

He flicks a knife into the desk between Harry's burnt, waxy fingers, and finally has the empty pleasure of surprising him. "Leave, Mr. Dresden," he says coldly. "Now, of your own accord, or I will get rid of you myself."

“What the hell, Marcone?” Dresden asks, confused, angry. “You can’t just-”

“Yes, I can. I don’t care that you are a fellow signatory of the Accords. You’re leaving,” John says, and with the slightest twitch the thin blade in his other sleeve releases to slide into his hand.

Dresden only stares at him. “You’re crazy,” he says, and John sees some illusion be stripped from Dresden’s perception.

“Possibly,” John concedes. He knows that he left something of himself with Nathan, and as the weeks pass it begins to seem to have been more and more vital. He pays no mind to the small part of him that agrees with Dresden- that John is becoming less able to find rational means to his ends. But rationality is a concept that no longer has a place in John’s world. There are means and there are ends, but the lines dividing acceptable from unacceptable have been erased. He stares back at Dresden.

John has become a being of absence, a presence defined by lacks. He keeps Nathan’s desk in its usual spot by the entrance to his office and spends each day looking at it and being on the verge of expecting him to come back saying ‘Sorry, Boss, got caught in traffic’. He’s left the apartment as it was in an unintentional sort of shrine to his that one crowning failure, and he avoids the bedroom at all costs. There comes a point when the guilt you nurture becomes an obsession, and John knows he’s there, pushing away the reality of the world, unable to take a passing interest in anything beyond the crushing weight. _And the invulnerable man shatters_ , he thinks.

Dresden watches him with an odd mix of pity and wariness as John steps back to his chair and collapses in it.

“I can’t help you, Dresden. I don’t have the answers anymore.”


End file.
